Spent time at the West Seattle Starbucks yesterday afternoon, co-writing with Cat Rambo.
It’s not my usual thing. Not that I mind the hubbub after working in a newsroom all those years; but I usually write in private because I like to wave my hands and mutter over plot points and try dialog out loud.
Even so, I got in 1,000 good words yesterday on High Mileage; Well Maintained, Only Driven Weekdays, a new time travel short. I’ve been too busy putting the finishing touches on Shadowman to have time to work on other things, so it felt good to stretch my short-story legs again.
Anyway, thank you, Cat, for joining me. Your company is always welcome.
For those of you who are interested, here’s a taste of the new WIP:
Twenty years since I swore I would never return to Florida, and there I was; headed north on A1A in search of a used car lot my dear and dead friend, Alex, had promised me was there.
I found the place just past the Melbourne bridge. Two air dancers anchored the front corners of the lot. Plastic arms spread wide in welcome, the two-story, lime-green tubes swayed and twisted in the easy ocean breeze. The lot was paved in bone-white crushed coral. A crackling line of faded multi-colored pennants fluttered on cable strung from the light poles along the highway. And an unlit neon sign across the face of the tired concrete-block building made an unpretentious promise: Used Cars.
I lived in Melbourne when I worked the NASA rockets, so I must have driven by the lot almost every day, but I didn’t recall ever noticing, even though it looked like it had been there near on to forever.
I found out later it had been there sixty years.